


Couples League

by TrueIllusion



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Future Fic, Light Angst, M/M, Patrick Brewer is a Troll, Post-Canon, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25265467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueIllusion/pseuds/TrueIllusion
Summary: “I signed us up for a bowling league.”David nearly dropped the slice of pizza he’d been eating as he whipped his head to the side to look at his husband, who was gazing at him expectantly, as if he thought he’d just delivered good news.“You… what?” David lowered the slice of pizza to his plate, just to ward off any further chances of catastrophe, as he felt his entire face -- brows, nose, and mouth -- begin to pinch together into an expression of extreme confusion mixed with mild disgust. “Someone must have put some magic mushrooms on this pizza, because I could have sworn I just heard you say that you signed us up for abowling league.”
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 35
Kudos: 154
Collections: Schitt’s Creek Sports Fest





	Couples League

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCSportsFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCSportsFest) collection. 



> Thank you my betas for reading this over for me and providing encouragement and suggestions, and thank you to my SC writing friends for all the sprints and helping me stay inspired and get unstuck when I was struggling.

“I signed us up for a bowling league.”

David nearly dropped the slice of pizza he’d been eating as he whipped his head to the side to look at his husband, who was gazing at him expectantly, as if he thought he’d just delivered good news.

“You… what?” David lowered the slice of pizza to his plate, just to ward off any further chances of catastrophe, as he felt his entire face -- brows, nose, and mouth -- begin to pinch together into an expression of extreme confusion mixed with mild disgust. “Someone must have put some magic mushrooms on this pizza, because I could have sworn I just heard you say that you signed us up for a _bowling league_.” David’s face became more and more pinched and disgusted as his voice rose in pitch.

“I did,” Patrick said calmly, picking up his own slice of pizza and taking a bite.

“Us, as in plural? You signed _us_ up for a bowling league?”

“Yes.” Patrick was still totally calm. Totally nonplussed. Not reacting at all to David’s confusion or how obviously revolted he was at the idea.

“And what exactly gave you the impression that _this_ ,” --David paused and gestured with his hands, moving them downward over his torso-- “is the body of a person who likes to go bowling? If you’re looking for someone who wants to go out and have a beer with the guys on a weeknight after work, you’d be better off asking Roland… or Ronnie.”

Patrick laughed as he leaned forward to set his plate down on the coffee table. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure Ronnie would turn me down, and Roland, well… let’s just say he’s not you.”

“I surely hope not.” David felt his neck wrinkle unattractively as he drew his head back, further intensifying his expression of complete and total revulsion.

“C’mon, David.” Patrick scooted closer to David and snuggled himself up to his side, weaving their fingers together. “It’ll be fun. Besides, it’s a couples league, so unless we’re in an open relationship and I didn’t know it, you’re my only option.”

“I guess that means Ronnie’s definitely out.”

“Yes.”

“And Roland and Jocelyn have probably already signed up.”

“I did see their names on the list, yes.”

“You still haven’t told me what exactly made you think I’d be _good_ at bowling.”

“It’s not about being good; it’s about having fun. Doing something fun together.”

“I can think of plenty of other _fun_ things we can do together, that don’t involve a bunch of sweaty old men with beer guts who like country-western music.”

“You can, huh?” Patrick gazed up at David, amusement dancing in his warm brown eyes.”Care to share with me what some of those things are?” One side of his lips quirked up into a wry grin as he raised an eyebrow.

“Well, for starters, you could take me to a Mariah Carey concert. Or maybe Beyonce. Or Lizzo. Or Lady Gaga.”

“I’m thinking those shows are just a _little_ bit out of our budget for now. I mean, we did just buy a house.”

“A Caribbean cruise is always a good option, and if you’re willing to go during hurricane season, you can get some really great rates--”

Patrick cut David off with a kiss. “As much as I’d love to be stranded with you on a huge ship in the middle of the ocean in hurricane-force winds, I have to say that bowling sounds much safer. And cheaper. I also already put down our deposit, and it’s non-refundable.”

“So you thought I was just going to go along with this, no questions asked?” David’s eyebrows were beginning to climb up into his hairline as he tried to wrap his brain around why on earth Patrick was so sold on the idea of the two of them _bowling_ together. The last place David wanted to be was in a noisy bowling alley, probably full of cigarette smoke and smelly people who didn’t use proper skincare products, even if he would be with Patrick.

“I was pretty sure I’d be able to convince you.” Patrick leaned in and kissed David again, this time more slowly and sensually, pushing his tongue into David’s mouth. He moved the plate of pizza from David’s legs to the coffee table without ever losing contact, then shifted even closer as he slid a hand under David’s sweater, lightly brushing his palm over David’s right nipple.

David pushed Patrick away just enough to separate their lips so he could speak. “Just so you know, we’re not done talking about this,” he said, a little bit breathless.

“Oh, I think we are…” Patrick let his voice trail off as he moved to straddle David on the couch, pushing his other hand under David’s sweater and continuing to move it upward until it was sliding over David’s shoulders and arms. Patrick carefully draped the sweater over the back of the couch -- thankfully, David had trained him well -- then captured David’s lips again, this time harder, drawing a groan from David as they separated. “Unless, of course, you’d rather go without…?” Patrick dragged his index finger down David’s bare chest, across his sternum and down to his navel, following the trail of dark hair that led to the waistband of David’s designer jeans. That was where he stopped, drawing his hand away just as David let out a whine and involuntarily thrust his hips upward. “And if that’s the case, then okay, I’ll call the bowling alley and let them know they can take our names off the list.”

“And just how long would this moratorium last?” David whispered, hating that he sounded so hungry and desperate, but Patrick had him by the balls -- figuratively speaking.

“Hmm… well, the league runs for six weeks, so… I’d say that sounds fair.”

“Patrick,” David whined, trying to pull his husband in for another kiss. Patrick, however, was having none of it, and moved even farther away, shaking his head.

“Nope,” he said. “That’s the deal. You can take it or leave it. Your choice.”

David took a deep breath and let it go with an exasperated sigh. “Okay, fine.” He rolled his eyes for good measure, really not enjoying the amused-yet-smug expression that was coming across his husband’s face at the moment. “But if some closeted, middle-aged _mountain_ man tries to come on to me, you have to promise to rescue me.”

“I promise, David.”

“And you also have to promise not to get mad at me if I roll a full game of gutterballs, because that is _exactly_ what happened the last time I went bowling.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“I was seven, and I was at a birthday party for some kid in my class that I didn’t even _like_ , but his parents and my parents were friends, so Dad told me I had to go and be nice, and I was, but--”

“David.” Patrick cut David off just as he started to spiral. “I’d venture to say you have a _little_ bit better control over your limbs now than you did back then.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure you do…” Patrick purred, as he leaned in and pressed his lips against David’s briefly, before pulling him up to his feet and tugging him in the  
direction of the staircase. “After all, you show me almost every night.” Their lips met again, and David felt drawn toward Patrick’s body like a magnet, his hands beginning to wander over Patrick’s chest, undoing the buttons of his navy blue shirt with eager fingers, until Patrick’s hands closed around his, pushing him away again. “Unless…” Patrick let the rest of the sentence hang in the air this time, a single eyebrow raised as he looked at David.

David sighed, his shoulders slumping forward in defeat, then nodded his head and rolled his eyes. “Okay,” he said, exasperated. “I’ll do it. But you still have to promise not to laugh.”

“I promise.” Patrick’s eyes were sincere enough to make David almost believe him as he leaned in for another soft, gentle kiss, then took David’s hand and led him up the stairs.

*****

David came home from the Apothecary the next day -- Patrick’s day off -- to a wrapped package on the kitchen table that looked suspiciously like a shoebox.

“What’s this?” David raised an eyebrow as he set his bag down in one of the chairs that they never used.

Patrick was standing at the stove, stirring something that smelled garlicky and delicious. “Open it and see,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as he tried to hide a smile.

“And what did I do to deserve a present?” David’s tone was playful, and he gave his husband a suggestive look as he picked the box up off the table. “Last I checked, it’s not my birthday.”

“Just open it, David.”

David slid his finger under the carefully folded and taped flaps on one side of the box, then the other. His curiosity was piqued, especially as he uncovered a size sticker on one end of the box, indicating that it, indeed, was a pair of shoes. Although he didn’t recognize any part of the box or the label so far. He kept going, every bit as nervous now as he was excited, and still not entirely sure that he trusted a man whose daily uniform consisted of $30 jeans with a blue button-up shirt and brown oxfords -- all of which he’d purchased at the so-called “mall” in Elmdale -- to pick out shoes on his behalf, even if they were a gift.

The more of the label he uncovered, however, the more confused he got.

“I’ve never heard of this brand,” he said, as he tore the paper the rest of the way open and set it aside, studying the box with a furrowed brow.

“Open the box,” Patrick repeated. Now he was grinning openly, looking every bit like the cat who swallowed the canary.

David did as he was told and took the top off the shoebox, revealing a pair of white leather shoes with some sort of black tribal design on the side. Cautiously -- as if they might bite him -- he picked one of them up and turned it over in his hand, still not quite sure why Patrick was buying him shoes, much less _this_ pair of shoes.

“They’re bowling shoes,” Patrick supplied, as he came closer and wrapped his arms around David’s torso from behind, hooking his chin over David’s shoulder. “After all, we can’t have David Rose tromping around in a pair of _rented_ shoes.” Patrick copied David’s usual vernacular and speech pattern, throwing in a bit of extra drama for good measure.

David shuddered, suddenly remembering the fit he’d thrown in the lobby of the bowling alley at seven years old, refusing to put on a pair of shoes that god-only-knows how many _strangers’_ feet had touched, that were probably teeming with bacteria and fungi and flesh-eating viruses that would cause him to get gangrene and almost certainly lead to his feet having to be amputated. All those years ago, his father had solved the problem by purchasing David his very own pair of bowling shoes from the pro shop, although David had to admit he’d never seen them again after that day, and he wasn’t quite sure if he’d even remembered to bring them home. Those shoes had been ugly, though -- some sort of blue and yellow number with huge velcro straps meant for little kids who didn’t know how to tie _real_ shoes. These, he had to admit, actually weren’t bad.

“I just thought I’d sweeten the deal a little.” Patrick’s arms tightened around David’s torso as he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of David’s neck. “Show you how much I appreciate you agreeing to do this with me.”

David set the shoes aside and turned to face his husband, settling his arms on Patrick’s shoulders. “Funny, I was under the impression that I didn’t have much choice in the matter.” His right eyebrow and the left side of his mouth quirked upward simultaneously as he regarded Patrick, who was giving him a mischievous smirk of his own.

“Oh, I knew you’d try to find every excuse in the world not to go, so I just figured I’d eliminate your most convincing one right off the bat.”

“Mmm… And what other very legitimate excuses are you anticipating?”

Patrick shrugged his shoulders as he walked back to the stove, his confident smirk broadening.

“You’d better not have bought us a matching set of those atrocious striped shirts Charlie Sheen was so fond of back in the 2000s. And if you did, I want a divorce, because you clearly don’t know me at all.”

“On the contrary, David, I think I know you _very_ well… and that’s why I did not buy you a shirt. You can wear whatever you want. But you do have to wear the shoes, or else you’ll be face-first on the lane the first time you throw the ball.”

“Well, we certainly don’t want that,” David whispered, shuddering. “One new nose was more than enough for this lifetime, thanks.”

“Then consider this my part of the effort in helping you keep this one,” Patrick chuckled. “Besides, I like this nose. Although I do sometimes wonder what your old nose looked like…”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know. There was a reason why I asked for rhinoplasty for my bar mitzvah.” A shiver ran down David’s spine at the sheer memory of that _atrocity_ he’d been born with, that he’d been more than happy to leave behind after taking a basketball to the face many, many birthdays ago.

He just wasn’t good at sports; he knew that. He’d accepted it a long time ago, and, quite frankly, never had much of an interest in them anyway. (At least, beyond the prospect of men with perfect, round asses wearing tight pants. That, David could get behind.)

But now, he was about to become a bowler, whether he wanted to or not. He just hoped that his talent for finding and creating disaster whenever it came to all things sports would somehow pass him by this time, sparing him the potential of a broken toe from dropping the ball on his foot, or whatever other misfortune might manage to befall him.

“You’re gonna be fine, David.” Patrick’s voice broke through David’s thoughts, bringing him out of his head and back into their kitchen. He draped his arms over David’s shoulders and leaned in to kiss him, his lips tasting faintly of butter and parmesan. “It’s just something fun for us to do together.”

“Okay, it’s just…” David tipped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m not good at sports,” he whined. “You know that.”

“I seem to recall you scoring the game-winning home run the last time we played a sport together.”

“That was just… beginner’s luck, I guess.” David wrung his hands, his brain still trying its darndest to come up with some sort of a way to get out of this, but coming up empty.

“David.” Patrick was looking right at David, his whiskey-colored eyes so full of love and sincerity and the fucking calm self-assuredness that always made David weak in the knees. “Do it for me… please? After all, we do have a deal.”

“Okay,” David sighed, letting his arms drop to his sides. “I’ll do it for you. And because I don’t want to go six weeks without having sex with my husband, because that’s just fucking torture!”

“That’s the spirit.” Patrick smiled as he tugged their bodies closer together, before leaning in again to give David another kiss. “Now, let’s eat before our dinner gets cold.”

*****

Less than a week later, they were in Patrick’s Corolla on the deserted stretch of road that led to the Wobbly Elm, which, naturally, happened to be on the way to the bowling alley.

“Where is this place again?” David asked, still not recalling ever having seen a bowling alley anywhere in his travels around Elm County.

“Not too far outside of town, actually,” Patrick said, keeping his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. 

“And just how did you find out about this… couples league?”

“I overheard Twyla talking about it with a customer at the cafe while I was picking up our lunch one day.”

“Ah, and then you just… decided… that we should join in.”

“David, we’ve been over this.” Patrick sounded exasperated, though his eyes still never left the road. “It’s just something fun we can do together. That’s all. It’s not about winning or being good at it; it’s just about being together. Doing something with my _husband_.”

David could feel the left side of his mouth pulling up into the smile that he couldn’t help whenever he heard that word -- husband. Now, Patrick was just playing dirty. “Well, when you put it that way…”

“I knew you’d come around.” Patrick smiled and looked at David out of the corner of his eye. “Just remember, it’s about having fun. That’s all.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence, which David’s brain tried to fill by dreaming up everything that could possibly go wrong. Patrick, however, was right there to ground him with a comforting hand on his thigh and a reassuring smile.

The bowling alley looked exactly as David had expected -- an old, somewhat nondescript brick building with very few windows and a set of dilapidated-looking double doors in the center of its facade. Neon lettering above the doors read, _Elm County Strike and Spare_ \-- or at least, some variation thereof, given that several sections of neon no longer appeared to illuminate. Roland’s truck was in the parking lot, but David didn’t recognize any of the other vehicles, although he was already fairly sure that he didn’t want to be friends with most people who would join a couples bowling league. He was doing this for Patrick.

The inside of the building wasn’t much better than the outside. Surprisingly, it didn’t smell of cigarette smoke, but the dim lighting made it look like smoke was hanging in the air anyhow, and the dingy walls in desperate need of fresh paint weren’t exactly doing anything for the space either. The color palette was atrocious, with carpet in a garish shade of brownish-orange, and each lane was framed by plastic chairs whose color could only be described as “baby shit brown,” because they sure as hell weren’t mustard or beige or any other tasteful shade. Honestly, walking into the building felt like stepping back in time to the 1970s, and David was fairly sure that the fixtures and equipment hadn’t been updated since then either.

Patrick took David’s hand and weaved their fingers together, giving him a soft smile that reminded David again why he was there. He could see in his husband’s always-expressive eyes that he was excited about what was to come, so David tried to smile back and make it actually look happy. The chuckle that fell from Patrick’s lips right after, however, told David he hadn’t been successful.

“I promise you’ll survive,” Patrick said, squeezing David’s hand.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Patrick led David to the counter, where he gave their names to a man with sallow skin, dull eyes, and a grouchy voice, who checked them in for the league.

“You need shoes?” he grumbled, his words barely discernible from one another.

“Nope,” Patrick said quickly. “We’re all good there.”

“Lane four,” the old man croaked, just before erupting into a hellacious smokers’ coughing fit that made David outwardly cringe as he backed away from the counter as quickly as possible, pulling Patrick along with him.

“Our lane is that way.” Patrick pointed in the opposite direction.

“I was just trying to make sure we weren’t about to catch something contagious. Okay, yes, that way.” David looked around until he spotted the number “4” in the upper right corner of the backlit yellow background that sat above the pins on each lane. As he and Patrick approached their lane, however, David was startled by a sudden hand on his forearm and an excited female voice in his ear.

“I think we’re playing against you guys!” Jocelyn exclaimed, her tone far, far too enthusiastic, as usual. “This is so exciting!”

David and Patrick both uttered the same word -- “great” -- at the same time, but their tones were very, very different.

When Jocelyn walked away, David leaned down to hiss in Patrick’s ear, “You couldn’t have, like, requested a _different_ opponent for our first match? Maybe someone whose entire existence doesn’t hinge on driving me absolutely insane?”

“I had no idea you had such strong feelings about Jocelyn,” Patrick deadpanned, elbowing David in the ribs.

“Not Jocelyn.” David rolled his eyes. “ _Roland_.”

“Ah, Roland,” Patrick said, a little too loud for David’s tastes, particularly since Roland heard him and took it as a greeting.

“Pat! Dave! Fancy seeing you guys here!” Roland’s voice rang out across the bowling alley as he clapped Patrick on the back, then made a move to do the same to David, who foiled him by turning away and pretending to be totally absorbed in the selection of brightly colored bowling balls to his left. “You know, I never would have pegged you for a bowler, Dave.”

“Um, for the thousandth time, it’s David… and I’m not. I’m here under duress.”

Now, it was Patrick’s turn to roll his eyes. “You’re acting like I kidnapped you or something.”

“Are you saying you didn’t?”

“Oooh… trouble in paradise?” Roland taunted them, waggling his eyebrows in a way that David found extremely disturbing.

David chose to ignore Roland, turning his attention back to the rack full of bowling balls and tugging Patrick along with him. “I presume I need to choose one of these?”

“If you plan to bowl tonight, yes.”

“Do I have a choice in the matter? If so, I’d like to know what my alternative options are.”

“Just pick a ball, David.”

Unfortunately for David, none of what was available fit his black-and-white aesthetic, so he went for what he felt was the next best thing -- a lovely shade of plum purple that might complement his cream colored sweater and tight black jeans. As soon as he reached for it, however, Patrick stopped him.

“You might want to pick another one,” he said, stifling a grin. “I’m pretty sure that one’s made for someone with really small hands. Besides, it’s an eight-pound ball, and I’m thinking you can lift a _little_ bit more than that.”

David arched an eyebrow. “You’re already holding me _hostage_ , and now you’re going to make fun of me?”

“I just don’t want you getting your fingers stuck in a house ball. Nobody wants to explain that one at the ER.”

“What the fuck is a house ball?”

“All of these. They belong to the bowling alley, for people to use if they don’t bring their own.”

“Wait, so _everybody_ uses these?”

“Well, not _everybody_ , but if you don’t have your own ball, yes, you pick one of these to use.”

“And I presume that when you’re done with it, you take it back to the lovely gentleman at the counter, and he disinfects it before putting it back out on the shelf?”

“Uh, nope… I’m pretty sure people just put them back on the shelf when they’re done.”

David made absolutely no attempt at concealing the horrified expression on his face. “And what makes you think I want to touch a ball that someone else has had their _fingers_ in?!” His voice was becoming shrill now, but he honestly didn’t care. He hadn’t recalled this little detail, and if he had, he would have made Patrick buy him a ball to go with his new shoes.

Roland snickered behind them, prompting David to roll his eyes again.

“I swear to god,” David muttered, “I’m gonna fucking kill him before this night is out.”

An amused smile played at Patrick’s lips, which only irritated David further. “Somehow I think that the owner of the town general store murdering the mayor wouldn’t be too good for business, so if you can refrain from killing him, that’d be great.”

“You know, you’re lucky you’re so great in the bedroom, or I wouldn’t even be here. I’d be back at home, having some tea and reading my book. But nooo, you just had to go and turn our relationship into a case study on Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Don’t be dramatic, David.”

“Um, you _do_ remember who you’re married to, right?!”

“Yes, I do…” Suddenly serious, Patrick brought his hands to either side of David’s waist and turned David to face him, gazing intently into his eyes. “I’m married to the kindest, most generous man I’ve ever known, who loves me so _very_ much that he’s willing to do this thing for me that’s way outside of his comfort zone, and I want him to know how much I appreciate that.” He leaned up and kissed David on the lips, drawing another eye roll and a resigned sigh from David as Roland whistled in the background.

“And you do know that if he does any more of _that_...”

“Then we’ll give him a show to watch.” Patrick kissed David again, lingering a little longer this time and making David wish there was somewhere they could sneak off for something a little more fun than throwing other peoples’ used balls (ugh, that sounded bad) down the lane at a set of pins that looked like they’d seen better days. “But seriously, you still need a ball. And I brought hand sanitizer wipes, so I’ll decontaminate it for you.” Patrick pursed his lips as his eyes scanned the shelf, ultimately coming to rest on a red ball with a dark yellow flame pattern on the sides. “How about that one?”

“Okay, sure, whatever. Just… be sure you clean it really well.”

“I will, David. Don’t want you catching any hand diseases from the unclean residents of Elm County.”

“No, we don’t.” David gave Patrick a pointed look that he hoped communicated just how _done_ he was with being teased, especially since he’d been roped into doing this against his will anyhow. “My hands are very, very important to me,” he said, waving them around in exaggerated circles for good measure.

“Vital communication tools,” Patrick agreed, taking a wipe out of his pocket and tearing open the package before carefully wiping down every square inch of the ball while David watched.

“You’re very… thorough, Mr. Brewer.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Rose. I’ll look forward to utilizing my well-practiced ball handling skills later.” Patrick gave David a suggestive look with a matching grin as he finished his cleaning duties and handed the ball to David.

“You’d fucking better. Otherwise, why am I even here?”

“Because you love me very, very much… my dear _husband_.”

David let out an exasperated breath as he rolled his eyes one more time. “You don’t play fair, you know that?”

“Oh, I always play fair.” Patrick grinned as he grabbed David’s hand again, pulling him down toward the lane, where Jocelyn was throwing a practice ball. She knocked down about half of the pins, which was approximately 50 percent more than David expected to be able to knock down. David knew from his brief stint as a baseball player just how competitive Patrick could be, though, so he was fairly certain that this bowling match was about to go very, very badly.

Even so, David declined Patrick’s offer to throw a few practice balls of his own, electing instead to keep his eyes glued to his husband’s ass as Patrick rolled the ball down the lane, knocking down several more pins than Jocelyn had on the first try, then clearing the rest of them on the second. Patrick celebrated his victory with a fist pump, then held his hand out to high-five David on the way back.

“Now _that_ , David, is called a spare,” Patrick crowed, obviously proud of himself.

“Um, okay… a spare what?”

“That’s it. Just a spare.”

David elected not to question the terminology any further -- at least for now -- instead glancing over his shoulder toward the snack bar. “You know, I’m thinking a martini might make this whole experience a little more palatable.”

Patrick laughed. “Uh, not sure they serve those, David. But I could get you a beer. Or they might have cider… I know you’re not much of a beer guy.”

“Whatever. Just as long as there’s alcohol,” David conceded, still wondering what kind of respectable establishment didn’t serve cocktails, although he supposed that he’d kind of answered his own question with the word “respectable.” At this point, he’d go for any kind of alcohol -- even that atrocious fruit wine from whatever-the-fuck his name was.

Patrick gave David a chaste kiss before he left, and David had to admit that he enjoyed watching his husband walk away in those tight jeans every bit as much as he’d enjoyed watching him bowl in them. Maybe this night wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Jocelyn, blessedly, also sent Roland on a run to the snack bar for some tater tots, saving David from having to spend any more time with him than he had to.

“This is so exciting,” Jocelyn said again, giving David a wide smile.

“Mmm… okay,” David whispered incredulously, shifting his gaze back toward the snack bar. David really, really hoped that Patrick would be back soon, because he wasn’t in the mental condition to be subjected to either one of the Schitts on his own tonight. Not when Patrick had practically forced him to come, and especially not when their first opponent turned out to be the absolute worst possible team in the league. David didn’t even _know_ anyone else who was there, so it just had to be his shitty luck that they’d end up playing against Roland and Jocelyn on the first week.

“Oh, look, you and Rollie have the same ball!”

David looked up and, sure enough, there were two red balls with a dark yellow flame pattern sitting in the ball return. Thankfully, David knew that his was the one next to Patrick’s light-and-dark-blue swirl number; he just hoped he could continue to keep them straight for the rest of the night, because no way in hell did he want to have his fingers in the same ball as Roland Schitt.

Jocelyn kept right on talking, but David wasn’t paying attention; he was too busy wondering whether or not Patrick had extra hand sanitizer wipes, should a ball swap be necessary. And, frankly, he wasn’t sure just how much more of Jocelyn he could take either.

Thankfully, Patrick was back less than a minute later with a bottle of beer in one hand and a tiny, individual-sized bottle of wine in the other, which he handed to David. “It’s no Elm Valley Vineyard, but--”

“It’s fine.” David cut Patrick off as he immediately cracked open the lid and took a few gulps, downing almost half the bottle in a matter of seconds.

“Um, everything okay?” Patrick asked.

“Lovely,” David said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he replaced the lid on his personal wine bottle and wondered if the snack bar sold anything larger. He was considering just finishing the rest of the bottle now as a precaution, when the gravelly voice of the old man at the counter came over the loudspeaker, announcing that it was six o’clock and the practice round was over.

“Yay!” Jocelyn clapped her hands excitedly.

“May the best team win,” Roland said, doing a poor job of hiding his overconfident, irritating smirk as he extended a hand towards David, presumably to shake.

David drew back and stuck his hands in his pockets -- avoiding both the handshake as well as Roland’s attempt to slap him on the shoulder instead -- while Patrick stepped in to shake Roland’s hand and say, “Likewise.”

Jocelyn and Patrick bowled first -- Jocelyn knocking down a total of five pins between her two throws, while Patrick bowled another one of those things he’d said was a “spare.” Then -- far too soon for his liking -- it was David’s turn.

“You can do this,” Patrick murmured in his ear, rubbing his hands over David’s shoulders. “Remember, we’re just here to have a good time.”

“You and I are going to have to talk about our definitions of ‘good time.’”

“I love you.” Patrick said softly, ignoring David’s comment as he leaned up to give him a brief kiss, which David reluctantly returned, knowing it was straight-up bribery.

“Mmm… okay,” David whispered. “But remember, you promised.”

“I know, David. And I meant it. Just… do your best.”

David still felt like those last three words were probably loaded, but he stepped up onto the lane and picked up his ball -- outwardly cringing as he stuck two fingers and his thumb into the three holes.

“Go David!” Jocelyn’s encouraging voice made David jump and nearly drop the ball, but he did manage to recover and give her a tight smile over his shoulder.

“Jocelyn, don’t cheer on the _enemy_ ,” Roland admonished his overly cheerful wife, sounding every bit as bored as he was annoyed as he bent down to pick up his own ball.

“Don’t be so serious, Rollie; we’re just here to have fun!” Jocelyn said, her smile still way too broad as she practically bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. Apparently ‘here to have fun’ was some sort of theme of this activity.

“You’ve got this, David!” Patrick chimed in, still sounding way too confident in David’s bowling abilities.

David took a deep breath and positioned himself carefully on the approach, in just the right spot where he felt like -- assuming he managed to throw the ball straight -- it would end up going right through the middle of the pins, or at least be as far away as possible from the gutters if nothing else. Then, he swung the ball in exactly the way he’d watched Patrick do a few minutes before, squeezing his eyes shut as he let it go at what he hoped was the right moment.

He kept his eyes closed as the ball rolled down the lane, sounding surprisingly as if it was still _on_ the lane and not in the gutter. Then, he heard the ball make contact with the pins, producing a racket that made him flinch. Said racket was followed by a loud whoop from behind him, which sounded a lot like Patrick.

Hesitantly, David blinked his eyes open and looked down the lane, where the sweeper was already clearing the pins. “What… what happened?”

Patrick was still celebrating behind him, while Roland looked… shocked? And maybe a little disappointed?

“You got a strike, David!” Jocelyn’s still-too-perky voice joined the melee.

“A… a what?” David vaguely remembered the term, but it honestly didn’t sound like a good thing.

“You knocked down all the pins!” Jocelyn supplied.

Patrick wrapped his arms around David and pressed his lips to David’s cheek in what was apparently some sort of congratulatory kiss. “Great job,” he murmured against David’s ear. “Now, just do that every time.”

David huffed out a laugh. “Might I remind you of my previous bowling record?”

“David, you were _seven_ ,” Patrick said, clearly exasperated. “Now, you’re--”

“If you value your life _and_ our marriage, you will _not_ finish that sentence.”

“Fine, but… my point is that it’s different now. Just… go up there next time and try to do it again. That’s all you have to do.”

The next time it was his turn, David did exactly that, knocking down nine pins this time, much to his surprise. He didn’t “pick up the spare,” as Patrick said, but that was apparently okay, because he’d “get them next time.” David, on the other hand, still wasn’t so sure about that.

Midway through the first game, Patrick had a score higher than Roland’s, at least according to the ancient television monitor that hung precariously above their heads. David’s score, however, was even higher than Patrick’s, which David figured had to be a mistake. In any case, Patrick and Jocelyn kept cheering him on, while Roland made the occasional snide comment, the most offensive of which was, “You know, Dave, your ball trajectory is the only straight thing about you.”

By the start of the second game, David was on his second tiny bottle of wine, and he had to admit that the wine did help, because he felt a little less nervous and a lot less annoyed with the whole thing. Not to mention the fact that every time he got a strike, Patrick would kiss him, so… that was pretty good. At the end of that game, however, things started to take a turn.

In the last frame, Patrick tried to do some sort of fancy curve thing with his ball, but ended up throwing a gutter ball instead, and then it happened again. Then, David threw a strike. Followed by another strike. And a third, which he couldn’t believe, because he’d thrown that one with his eyes closed.

“David, you got a turkey!” Jocelyn exclaimed.

“Wait, what? Patrick, why didn’t you tell me I could win _food_ at this thing?” David turned to look at his husband, ready to endure some good-natured teasing with a healthy amount of sarcasm, but Patrick was sitting slouched in one of the baby-shit-brown chairs with his arms crossed.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got Dave, huh, Pat?” Roland smirked as he gave Patrick a teasing smack on the shoulder. “He’s the only reason you two won that one.”

Patrick’s only response was a grunt and a shrug, arms still firmly crossed in front of his chest. His posture reminded David of a pouting toddler, although on Patrick, David had to admit it was sort of cute. David sat down next to Patrick and wrapped his arms around him, feeling a tiny bit of the tension melt out of Patrick’s shoulders as David pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“It’s fine, honey,” David said softly. “You’ll get them next time. Besides, we’re just here to have fun, remember? Now, where do I go to pick up my turkey?”

Patrick snorted, arms still crossed, though not quite as tightly, and a smile had started to play at the corners of his lips. “You didn’t _win_ a turkey; you _got_ a turkey. That means you got three strikes in a row.”

“Oh… so there’s no food, then?”

“No, no food.” Patrick was definitely smiling in spite of himself now, laughing and shaking his head as he uncrossed his arms, making David glad that his tendency toward ridiculously literal interpretations of things had come in handy for once.

“I guess I’ll just have to wait until dinner, then.” David let his voice go low and sultry as he drew his hands back to stroke Patrick’s shoulder playfully. “I’m thinking you might owe me a pizza after this.”

“We’ll see, David.” Patrick’s voice was pragmatic, as always, but David recognized the look in Patrick’s eye that told him he probably would end up with what he wanted.

“Last game,” Roland warned, apparently trying his best to sound foreboding. “Winner takes all.”

That seemed to be all it took to shift Patrick back into full competition mode, leveling Roland with a semi-good-natured threat about “seeing who’s the best team now” as he got up to roll his first ball of the game. Patrick got a strike, giving David the opportunity to return the favor of a congratulatory kiss, which was a ritual he was really starting to enjoy. Jocelyn got a spare, then Roland scored a strike, which meant he was gloating mercilessly when David got up to take his own turn.

David rolled something that Patrick referred to as a “seven-ten split,” which he also said was basically impossible to pick up, so he didn’t seem surprised or bothered at all when David didn’t hit either one of the pins on his second ball. Team Brewer-Rose stayed pretty even with Team Schitt for the first few frames of the third game, until David scored three more strikes in a row.

“ _Another_ turkey!” Jocelyn squealed. “Wow!”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a secret bowler, Dave,” Roland joined in. “You’re pretty good.”

The only one of their quartet who didn’t offer him an enthusiastic congratulations was Patrick, who gave him a tight smile and a curt, “Nice one.” The congratulatory kiss was also suspiciously missing from the celebration this time.

As they finished the third game, Patrick’s mood only got darker, even though they were winning, which confused the hell out of David. Patrick didn’t have the best luck in that game, but David figured it was okay, since his own score was making up for it. But Patrick even seemed pissed off when David got a strike in the last frame to edge out Roland for the win. David had figured that ultra-competitive Patrick would be all about winning at all costs -- especially against Roland and Jocelyn, which David was pretty darn happy about himself -- but instead, Patrick seemed to be stewing about something.

His foul mood continued through the obligatory handshakes of good sportsmanship that David remembered from Little League, then all the way to the car, where Patrick turned left out of the parking lot to head back towards Schitt’s Creek instead of taking a right towards Elmdale, where David’s favorite pizza place was.

“Don’t forget about the pizza you promised me,” David purred, leaning over to suggestively walk his fingers up Patrick’s thigh. “After all, we did win.”

“I didn’t promise you anything.” Patrick’s response was clipped, and he didn’t take his eyes off the road for even a second.

“Um, we won, right?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Okay…” David dragged out the vowels in the word as he pinched his eyebrows together in confusion. “I guess I was just thinking you’d be… happier… about that.”

Patrick didn’t say anything, and he still didn’t look at David.

“Okay, why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad. I’m just… surprised. That’s all.”

“At _what_? I didn’t even _want_ to do this!” David’s voice was rising as he started gesturing wildly with his hands to work out some of the anxiety that was quickly rising in his gut.

“I guess I didn’t expect you to be so… good at it.”

“So what, I was supposed to be the comedic foil for the evening? Were you setting me up to be everyone else’s entertainment?”

“No, David,” Patrick sighed, clearly sounding frustrated. “I wasn’t setting you up for anything. I only signed us up because I thought it would be a fun thing to do together.”

“And now because I beat you, you’re no longer having fun?”

Patrick didn’t say anything; he just chewed on the inside of his lower lip as he continued to stare straight ahead at the road.

“What was I supposed to do?” David said, his voice slowly becoming more shrill and his hand movements even more exaggerated as his own frustration increased. “Throw the game so you could beat me?”

“No, because then we would have lost.”

“Okay, then what?”

“I don’t know, David!”

“Um, can _this_ guy go back in the box?” David moved his left hand around in a broad circle aimed in Patrick’s direction. “Because he really needs to go back to wherever he came from. I only did this because you practically _blackmailed_ me. How was I supposed to know I was going to be better than you? Or that that wasn’t allowed! Now you’re mad at me, and--”

“I’m not mad, David!”

“Well, you sound mad!”

Patrick let out a loud exhale, dropping his gaze down for a second before turning it partly in David’s direction. “David, I’m not mad. I just… I’ve got a headache, and I need a few minutes of quiet.”

“Oh, okay then. Far be it from me to intrude on your _quiet_ after you just dragged us both to a _bowling alley_.”

“David...” Now, Patrick just sounded tired.

“No, I’m done. You won’t hear another word out of me.” David crossed his arms and turned to look out the window. The scenery wasn’t much to look at it, but it was at least better than looking at Patrick, who had found some inexplicable reason to be angry at David for going along with a plan _he’d_ come up with in the first place without even asking.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence, and Patrick didn’t stop for pizza -- not even from the terrible carryout joint in Schitt’s Creek whose pizza was really only palatable when he and Stevie were high. When they got inside, David turned to ask Patrick whether or not he wanted any more of the leftover meatloaf, but when he turned around, all he could see was his husband’s back as he stomped up the stairs toward their master suite, already shedding his button-up before he even made it to the top.

David decided that since Patrick wasn’t speaking to him, that entitled him to _all_ of the meatloaf, so he warmed up the remaining two slices and toasted some sourdough bread to make himself a sandwich. It wasn’t pizza, but he didn’t feel like asking Patrick for the car keys, and he’d already had his fill of physical activity for the day, so walking was out of the question.

As he ate his sandwich, David tried to tell himself that all he was doing was letting Patrick have space -- room to stew and be mad and do whatever he needed to do to get over this ridiculous spate of jealousy. That was easier said than done, though, and eventually David’s brain started to lead him down an admittedly absurd path that ended in he and Patrick getting a divorce, all over a stupid _bowling_ league that David didn’t even want to be a part of. But at this point, as ridiculous as Patrick was being, nothing felt like it was off the table. So that was how David ended up texting Stevie a single question: _Do you know a good divorce lawyer?_

Stevie’s response was to call David immediately, starting the call off with her signature deadpan: “What the hell are you talking about? I mean, I know he made you go bowling and all, but don’t you think divorce is a little over-the-top, even for you?”

“Well, he’s the one who won’t talk to me, so…”

“Wait, what? What happened? What did you do?”

“What did _I_ do?! I beat him at bowling, and that apparently was _not_ allowed--”

Stevie cut him off with a loud guffaw. “I’m sorry, what? I swear I thought you said you beat him at bowling.”

“I did. I don’t know if it was beginners’ luck or my keen eye for detail and straight lines or--”

“Oh, man.” Stevie cut David off before he could get any further into his anxious ramble, but he didn’t miss the little snicker that she tried to hide at the end.

“What? So was everyone except me in on this little secret that I needed to be _bad_ at bowling in order to preserve my _marriage_?”

“No, it’s just… You know how competitive he is.”

“I do, and that’s why I tried to _win_! And we did win! So I don’t understand why he’s so mad! I mean, I didn’t even want to do the thing in the first place, but he left me _no_ choice, so I did it, and now we’re getting divorced, and I’ll be all alone for the rest of my life!”

“This sounds like an awful lot to hinge on one night of a bowling league,” Stevie said sarcastically.

“Okay, you know what? I asked you a _question_ , and you haven’t even answered it--”

“That’s because I don’t know any divorce lawyers, but you don’t need one anyway. Patrick will be fine. He’ll come around.”

“You don’t know that.” David dropped his voice to a whisper. He knew how irrational he was being, but he was far enough along that he couldn’t stop the progression now, and Stevie wasn’t exactly helping.

“David.” Stevie suddenly dropped her sarcastic tone, adopting the serious one she used when she really needed him to listen to what she was saying. “Patrick isn’t going to divorce you just because you beat him at bowling. Just… give him some time to cool down, then go talk to him. You’ll see.”

“Well, if he comes down here wanting a divorce--”

“He won’t.”

“Well, if he _does_ , I’m moving in with you.”

“Okay, David.” Stevie’s tone shifted to the bored, somewhat-sardonic one that she sometimes used to placate him when she _really_ thought he was being ridiculous but was too tired to argue with him. “Good talk.”

“You’re the one who called _me_ , remember?”

“Yes, because you texted me to ask me if I knew any divorce lawyers, and I figured I’d better talk you off the ledge before you did anything stupid.”

“I’ll have you know I’m not on the _ledge_ , thankyouverymuch. I’m perfectly sane. It’s Patrick who’s acting… unbalanced.”

“Look, like I said, give him a few minutes, then go talk to him. He’ll be fine. Remember, I’m in the baseball league, too; I’ve seen him when he’s like this. He just needs time to come around.”

David sighed, tipping his head back as he rolled his eyes. He’d seen Patrick like this too, but it had never been directed at _him_ , and that made it feel different. “Okay, fine. I’ll wait until he gets out of the shower and then I’ll go talk to him. But you’d better not have rented out the love room, because I’m going to need it again for all my--”

“Goodbye, David.”

Stevie cut him off this time by hanging up, and David laid his phone on the table, alongside the plate containing his half-eaten meatloaf sandwich. After coming to the conclusion that he wasn’t all that hungry anymore, David moved to get up and take his plate to the sink, and that was when he saw Patrick leaning on the kitchen doorway.

“Um, hi,” David whispered, stopping mid-turn with the plate in his hand.

“Hi.” Patrick gave him a sad smile as he stepped further into the room, taking the plate out of David’s hands and setting it back on the table before setting his hands on David’s shoulders, gazing at him with big, brown eyes full of remorse. “I’m really sorry. I was… I wasn’t being fair to you.”

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know.”

“You didn’t even want to go in the first place, and I made you go, then I got mad at you because you did really well. I should have been proud of you, but I… I guess I let my competitive side take over, and… Well, like I said, I’m really sorry.”

“Mmm… and how much of my phone call with Stevie did you hear?”

“Enough to know that if I didn’t stop being an ass, you were apparently going to move in with her, so I figured I’d better save her.”

“So I’m guessing that means divorce is officially off the table, then?”

“It was never _on_ the table, David. I promise. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. I love you… nothing’s ever going to change that. Especially not some stupid game.”

David nodded and pulled his lips into his mouth for a moment before speaking again, this time hoping to shift the mood away from the dark thoughts that had been making him anxious and more toward the positive, fun evening Patrick had been hoping to have -- and that David now desperately needed, if he was being honest. “Okay, so... given all of that... I’m pretty sure you still owe me a pizza.”

Patrick laughed and smiled as he shook his head, then took his phone out of his pocket. “You’re right; I do. Will Sal’s be okay for tonight? I don’t really want to drive back to Elmdale tonight, but I promise we can go to Elm Valley Pizza Company after the league next week.”

“Actually,” David said, gently taking Patrick’s phone out of his hand and setting it aside on the table, “there’s one more thing I was promised that I’d like to collect on first.”

“Oh?” Patrick raised his eyebrows, but the set of his lips and the look in his eyes told David he already knew exactly the direction in which David was headed.

“I’m _also_ pretty sure _someone_ promised to demonstrate his expert ball handling skills…” Letting his voice trail off, David leaned in for a kiss. His fingers found purchase in the still-damp hair at the nape of Patrick’s neck as their tongues met, swirling around one another before Patrick pulled away, his eyes alight with desire mixed with relief as he gently tugged David toward the staircase.

“I think I can handle that.”


End file.
